Amazing
by WomanWarrior
Summary: The war is over. While mourning the dead, a certain someone is met with sudden inspiration involving their significant other. Simple RHr fluff.


_**Disclaimer:** Repeat after me. I. Do. Not. Own. Harry. Potter. I. Do. Not. Own. Harry. Potter. Good job. One more time, everybody! I. Do. Not. Own. Harry. Potter. I don't own the Rascal Flatts song "When the Sand Runs Out" either. I have many talents, but singing ain't one of 'em. I do own the plot. No stealing of my plot, please._

_**Author's Note: **This fic is loosely based on the Rascal Flatts song "When the Sand Runs Out". Those of you who have heard it, know what I'm talking about – those who haven't, what are you waiting for! Beautiful, sad song, that. Admittedly, the first time I heard it, I thought – oh my god, that is a Ron/Hermione fic. Oh my god. It's just taken me this long to write it, sadly._

Just as he had every day for the last two weeks, he knelt by the simple headstone. A bouquet of white lilies was held in his left hand, but he was loathe to leave them. The rain beat down, dripping off of his red hair and soaking into his lightweight jacket and jeans.

He traced his fingers slowly over the inscription. _Arthur Weasley - January 15th, 1954-July 17th, 1999 & Molly Weasley - August 20th, 1954-July 17th, 1999 – May they be carried on the wings of angels to heaven._ It was not the inscription he would have chosen for his parents, but nothing could be done about it – and at least they deserved to go to heaven.

Moving silently along the grassy path, he bent at the next headstone. Tears leaked from his eyes, mingling with the rain. No matter how many times he visited, seeing this headstone always made him cry. _Harry James Potter – July 31st, 1980-July 17th, 1999 – He will be missed._ He hadn't even been nineteen. He had his entire life in front of him, and all his dreams were wiped away in a few short hours. The lilies fell from the redhead's hands as he sat cross-legged, ignoring the wetness soaking his jeans.

"Harry, mate," he choked. "God, I hope you're in heaven, playing Quidditch and laughing. I hope you're having a good time, dating cute girls and doing everything you… you never had a chance to. I don't know anyone who deserved a chance more than you did. We all miss you, mate."

The final few weeks before the battle to end the second war were, without a doubt, the longest weeks of his young life. He was willing to bet that they would be the longest weeks of his entire life. Nothing could top watching his friend waste away, cramming in study, practicing spells, anything that could possibly help, knowing that nothing he could do or say would change the course set out.

And then, that horrible night, where screamed hexes and curses – and worse, screams of the tortured and dying – filled the air. Several bonfires blazed high; no one knew who had lit them or what their purpose was. He had fought hard, and by the time he was done had several bloody scrapes and gashes to show for it. In a moment of hope, he had found Ginny and Hermione, blood-spattered and weary, but wondrously alive. But, as they combed through the bodies of the thousands of dead, they found his parents – and then Harry. He was just barely alive, and he'd hurriedly picked him up – how light he had been, after having eaten so little for the last weeks – and Apparated to the hospital. While trying to find someone to help, the ghost of life left his friend. For the first time since he was small, he broke down and cried. Wept and bawled like a baby, clinging to Ginny and Hermione – but especially Hermione.

A sudden flash of lightning and the concurrent growl of thunder cut through his reminisce. He ran his fingers over the stone one last time and decided not to leave the flowers. They would only get torn to shreds in the storm. "Mate, I hope you're happy, wherever you are."

With a slight pop, he Disapparated. Normally, he would linger for nearly an hour, having one-sided conversations – although he liked to think that Harry could hear him. But in this weather, it was not practical.

Diagon Alley was filled with shoppers scurrying to finish their shopping and hurry home. As it was only raining, with no signs of the encroaching thunderstorm yet, he stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered along the street that was the hub of London's Wizarding community. He was renting the flat above his brothers' shop, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Fred and George had moved into their girlfriends' flats last year.

He paused outside of several store windows, glancing at what surprises each of them held. Contrary to the usual, however, none of them seemed to make him want to pull out his wallet and buy something. Not even Quality Quidditch Supplies… Fortunately it was still raining, or he would have been too conspicuous as he saw the latest model - the Firebolt Achilles, faster and more easily controlled than even the Firebolt Hermes – something Harry would've loved.

Pausing at one final window, he was compelled to enter. It was something he couldn't explain, something he wouldn't try to. The shop was tiny, the window display nothing special. It was simply called "Elwyn's" and appeared to be a jewelry store.

A tiny gold bell tinkled somewhere above his head as he entered, and he acknowledged the, "Good day, sir. May I help you?" from the slight man behind the counter with a nod of his head.

"No, thank you. I'm just looking," he replied, his tone more formal that usual. He browsed among the few display cases for the finer pieces and racks for those less expensive. Many of the finely wrought bits of metal and precious stone were completely unaffordable on his small salary, and, after all, Hermione never wore huge diamond cascades in her ears. Yes, she and Ginny had gotten their ears pierced a few years ago, but she usually only wore simple studs.

The display of diamond rings caught his eye. He would never be able to buy the outsized rocks on the left side of the case, but the right… Some were horrendously ugly, and most were gold. He knew Hermione looked better in silver or white gold, although why he was thinking about that now, he wasn't sure.

His gaze settled on one particular ring. It was hidden, shadowed between two much more extravagant, almost gaudy, pieces of jewelry. The white gold was twisted into Celtic knots, calling attention to the small diamond chip set at the centre. It was perfect. "Harry, mate, I hope you're alright with what I think I'm doing," he mouthed, before turning to the man at the counter. "Excuse me, sir. I was wondering if I could look at something?"

The man got up, grabbed a ring of keys, and walked briskly over. "Of course, sir. Elwyn's is always willing to help. What do you want to see?"

"That one." He pointed.

"The diamond solitaire? Or the Celtic one, next to it?"

"The Celtic one, please."

The man drew it out and handed it to the redhead. He turned it over and over in his hands, imagining what it would look like on her finger. "How much is this?"

The man quoted a price that, although reasonable, was much more than he'd expected. He pondered it for only a few seconds. "I'll be taking it, then."

"Someone special it's for?"

"Yeah, she is. It's high time we got married. Merlin, we've been together for almost four years now. She's amazing. I just hope she agrees."

"She will. If you've been together for four years…" He drifted off, returning to his perch behind the till. He rung up the purchase, slipping the ring into a small, white velvet case and placed it into a tiny bag labeled Elwyn's. "Here you are sir. Have a nice day – and good luck." A small smile slid past his lips, unbidden on his serious face.

"You too. Thank you." And with that, he pushed out the door and walked down to his brothers' shop. Opening the door, he walked straight into the back room, climbing up the stairs. He pulled a key from his pocket, unlocking the door with it.

His flat quite obviously belonged to a bachelor. It was sparsely furnished, with just the necessities. The kitchen cupboards were mostly bare, boasting only a large bag of crisps, a six-pack of Firewhiskey, several bottles of Butterbeer, and the remainders of his last stop at Honeyduke's. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink as he'd never been much good at cleaning charms and doing them the Muggle way took too long.

He left the bag on a clean-looking spot of scarred countertop – what his brothers had done up here, he really didn't want to know - and grabbed the bag of crisps. He wandered aimlessly through his flat, desperately bored. The storm was now raging full-blast outside, pelting the windows with rain, the lightning flashes and rolls and cracks of thunder getting more frequent. There wasn't really anything to do, because he couldn't go outside in this weather, and the Wizarding Wireless Network would have too much interference from the storm. He'd finished the latest issue of the Quidditch magazine last week, and wouldn't get another for nearly a month.

Well, there was one option. But no, the proposal had to be perfect. Not spontaneous. He needed roses – a dozen. Or he could have a single red rosebud. That would be almost more romantic. He'd also want to take her out to dinner, somewhere fancier than usual. Or, scratch that, he'd do it at the Burrow. Or maybe just one of their usual haunts – not one of the Muggle bars they frequented after dinners, but one of the Diagon Alley restaurants.

After all, he'd been with her for five years. They could wait another week while he planned it out perfectly. Ah, hell, he thought, the celebratory sex would be amazing. And when you're a twenty-year-old guy, sex is awfully important.

A sudden wash of nervousness and panic overcame him. What if she said no? Would Harry have approved? What if she said she had to think about it? What if she said no? What if she ran away from him, screaming? What if she said that she wasn't ready to be tied down yet? What if she said no? What if she wanted kids right away? What if she said no? What if she said she never wanted kids? What if she said no? What if she never spoke to him again? What if… oh shit… what if she said **_yes_**? What then? There would be wedding plans… A wedding… A wedding _night_… - that would make it all worth it, maybe. Oh god.

He set the now-empty crisps bag on the countertop, not bothering to find a rubbish bin. The wash of questions and worries only intensified. He picked up the bag, pulled out the case and opened it. He removed the ring and set the box down. Twisting the ring over and over in his hands, he ran his finger over the patterns and the tiny diamond. Now, he wondered if he'd bought the right ring. Sure, it was pretty. But it wasn't elaborate or expensive. Nor was he sure that she'd like it. With a sigh, he returned it to the box.

Coming to a sudden decision, he took a pinch of floo powder from its pot on the mantel. Throwing it into the fireplace, he said clearly, "Hermione's place!" before sticking his head into the flames. "'Mione, you there!" he called.

"Yes?" she came bustling into the room, wiping her damp hands on a towel. "Why?"

"I'll be there in a minute. Just let me…" and with that he withdrew his head from the greenish fire.

He quickly threw on a more respectable shirt – he didn't think she'd like the 'Firewhiskey – Serving your needs since 1896' t-shirt he wearing. Sticking the tiny velvet box into one pocket, he Apparated with a slight pop.

When he was settled at her kitchen table, the pair had talked about usual topics – common acquaintances and the like – and flirted with each other. Their easy conversation and ability to talk around each other belied their fights back in their school days.

"…So anyways, he was talking to these Muggles, going on and on about how great his new composer was, right? They had to think he was nutters, but anyways –" at this point, he was doubled over laughing and could barely choke out the words "—anyways, they kept listening! Even when he was describing how his – how his composer could access the fishing-net, and – oh, Merlin! He was trying to tell them about his new _computer_!"

Hermione was in stitches too. "Nothing like that happens at the Ministry! They're all so stuffy over there."

"'Mione, calling someone stuffy! Reading gigantic tomes for fun, and you're calling them stuffy?" He allowed a slight pause, then continued. "'Mione, you know I'm kidding. You're so adorable when you're reading, your nose gets all wrinkled up sometimes and you have this look of concentration. And I love you, all of you – even your weird habits like carrying around all these books wherever you go."

"Oh, you. I love you too." He couldn't help but think how perfect she was. Even though her thick hair was pulled into a messy bun secured with a pencil and she was dressed in what she called 'Saturday clothes' – ancient plaid lounge pants and a white tank top. He did like that her bra strap peeked out, though.

"So, speaking of the Ministry, how's your job?" The Ministry had recently experienced an interdepartmental shuffle. Hermione had been caught up, and moved from her previous position as an Unspeakable into the Department for Muggle Relationships, which was where she had always wanted to be.

"Oh, it's just wonderful! The people are amazing. Plus, I actually have my own office, with two windows! Of course, the windows don't look outside, but they usually do reflect the weather outside. And guess what!"

She sounded so excited that he had to be excited for her as well. "What?"

"I've been selected to go on a trip to America. We're doing a study in cooperation with the American Center of Magical Studies, the ACMS, you know. It's comparing the habits and lifestyles of British Muggles to American Muggles and combining all of that with the Foreign Relationships department's information on how British wizards and American wizards act. That way, wizards from both America and England will be better equipped to travel among Muggles from both countries. Right now, we're having a bit of trouble explaining away our witches and wizards' mistakes while traveling abroad. I'm scheduled to leave in two weeks, and I only found out today!"

"How long will you be gone?" He was disappointed that she would be leaving – it was a fantastic opportunity for her, but he couldn't stand the thought of being separated from her for that long.

"I'm not sure yet, really. The department heads are guessing a month to a month and a half, but they were pretty vague about the whole thing."

"Well, 'Mione, that's fantastic. Good luck."

"I'll miss you while you're gone," she replied, laying her hand on his arm. He leaned towards her and their lips met. It was a soft kiss, reassuring and comforting.

As they pulled apart, he suddenly knew what he had to do. He stood up. "'Mione, I know this isn't the most romantic place. But… we've been through heaven and hell together. We've fought, made up, snogged. You name it, we've done it. Somehow, we've survived, and I'd like to think that we're better for it. We have our memories of ourselves and the people we lost in the war." He went down on one knee. "Most twenty-year-olds are dating with no thought of settling down. But I think we both know… Hermione Jane Granger, what I'm trying to say is… will you marry me?" He opened the ring box, showing her the diamond chip inside.

Tears were running down her face now, and she pulled him up.

He was worried now. "'Mione, if you don't want to, if you aren't ready, I mean, I don't want to rush you. Just say no if you want to."

"No, no! That's not it at all. I'm just so – so happy. Yes, Ron, of course I'll marry you!"

He pulled her into a searing kiss, a back-bending, toe-curling, water-boiling kiss.

And he was right – the celebratory sex _was_ amazing.

_**Author's Note:** Well, it's my third attempt (second at at Ron/Hermione fluffiness. Hopefully I'm improving? Anyway, maybe next time I'll make y'all happy with a multi-chaptered story or a Harry/Ginny fic! We'll see. After all, you never know when inspiration will hit. Y'all have a good St. Patrick's Day and remember: KISS ME, I'M POLISH! ) Anyone who kisses me (it can be a friendly peck on the cheek, I don't need full-blown back-bending, toe-curling, water-boiling kisses) gets a cookie!_


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